Torchwood Toccoa
by NowWeOwnTheNight
Summary: Torchwood was truly the one penultimate job which never left you… only because you'd never remember if you left it, if you were part of it, or if you'd had any knowledge of it other than the standard 'Outside the Government, beyond the Police' explanation. Or: I have no idea where this is going. Winters, Nixon, Speirs, Lipton- Jack, Ianto, Owen, Tosh. Guest starring Doctor and co.


Torchwood AU

Mainly kind of from Speirs' POV probably maybe I have no idea

* * *

"Nixon! Where the fuck is my coffee?!"

"Don't be rude, Ron."

"Piss off, Carwood."

Ronald Speirs dodged the sandwich half by stepping back behind his computer screens. Neither of them would admit that they chuckled together. Lipton's simple attire of grey shorts and a shirt blended him in to the Hub atmosphere, whereas Speirs looked painstakingly cheerful in spite of current moods; his rainbow sweater not the teensiest bit modest against the steely tones of Torchwood Toccoa. They were enemies. Polar opposites, nemesis, arch-nemesis even, forced to collaborate. He'd prefer to be locked in a nuclear power plant on meltdown than work with Carwood, but what were the choices. Especially in this business. It was here or Cardiff. And anywhere near London at this time of year was a total shitfight, so no.

Here he was stuck, and here he would stay. And most likely die, too. He'd come to accept it. Peacefully; falling short of the 'slightly' range. There was a lot of drunkenness involved in a revelation by its nature- and in consequence, low recall ability.

His current mission- fucked if he could remember that as well. The Captains teleportation bracelet had been discussed here and there within the everlasting day he'd had. Days, to be precise. The equation on the monitor ticked through answers in a blur of black and white. If Ron glared at shifting pixels any harder, they just might collate to form the meaning of life, the entire universe in a picture, the Matrix system he'd have to beat in order to escape the system. Theta symbols and zeroes looked the same in the encryption file, as did fives and the letter S, and Ron didn't know how much more he could take. His molars were aching from a grating per red 'denied' response… and Carwood Lipton chiding each colorful swear he let out relevant to anything and everything. Lots of things were angering in his state.

Obviously, the idiotic computer who couldn't configure the recently changed rift manipulator setting was a prime tick-off. A conjoined effort of coffee-less and invisible tea boys, Carwood's hatred of the radio, and Myfawny swooping them periodically wasn't helping matters.

He'd been on the case for thirty hours. Thirty god damned hours because Muck Skip had to go shoot himself in the head after getting freakishly obsessed with a resurrection glove. Optional suicide left the brunt of Torchwoods workload to him and the preponderantly vexing man in the world. [Being well-versed in mythology was a useful trait, according to their Captain, but Speirs found himself on the receiving end of what he supposed were Celtic insults.] Light-brown hair, short but not sticking out in prickles, and feather soft. Not like he had taken note or anything. Carwood had bright brown irises, subtle green and gold flecks marring the chocolate colored pigment. A flattering, loose fitted singlet remained after he'd abandoned the outer clothes. Crossing the thick muscle of his shoulder and neck and adorning it with pale pinks and whites: a scar mapped its journey from the center of his back to his collar bone. The thicknesses ranged from delicate back-streets to wide and jagged oceans.

The man was practically the work of Van Gogh.

Yes, all of it was waxing on the matter of the six-foot-man-child spinning in his wheelie chair at the computer station a platform down- two thirds of his time spent as a human embodiment of a doped up hedgehog… and the remainder being a royal stick up Ron's ass. Not literally, of course. Just because the guy was kinder than the mother Teresa to anyone except him.

"Nixon! Fucking coffee!"

"Shut. Up."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Carwood!"

"You're such a bilgesnipe!"

"Piss off, with your Norse fucking mythology!"

"Geriatric wanker!"

"Twat!"

"Dickhead!"

"Bitch-ass turd fucker!"

"Enough, both of you!" Richard strode through the circular Hub door, the whirring sirens having gone unnoticed by scream match number five hundred and five. The two men exchanged aftershock whispers of general hatred while their newly arrived Captain led their consistently drunk tea-boy: Lewis Nixon. Said alcoholic instantly rose to Demi-God status when the aroma of fresh coffee wafted from a mug slammed directly under Speirs' nose. Captain Dick Winters jogged up the many levels to his office- lodged between the greenhouse and the meeting room- snatching a jar what was either a conglomeration of worms or a severed hand preserved in liquid. No one could tell, as of late, when it came to the Captain. Stranger than most men, Dick was, but the bipolar attitude both interfered with dynamics and concerned the small, close-but-not-overly-friendly-knit community.

If a simple 'strange' ought to cover his knack of _not_ being able to _die_, then it could cover the omnisexuality and devilish grins that came as rarely as Lipton's kind words to Speirs. Something was going to come to head- no one discerned what it was; but there was anticipation, buzzing and electric, in each and every step Dick took.

The Captain disappeared to his papers and old oak desk, Nixon collapsed on the couch soundlessly, and had been snoring five steps before smushing his body into the dusty cushions.

Lipton raised his skim milk mocha to Speirs and, as if on cue, the computer went wild in 'affirmative', indicating that the equation was finally solved. Speirs couldn't contain his joy and took off, bounding up the stairs to inform Dick- who had heard -and was heading down at the same time. Neither were really aware of the other, collided like atoms and comically tumbled down half a flight. Lipton smirked, downed half his scalding drink, and got to work shifting the file through to their mainframe. There ensured a few more hours of work to be done but Speirs was intent on going home, and Carwood on getting said attractive irritant out of his hair. He and Nixon could get through the simple process, dead tired or pissed or not. He held the ability, alone, at least. All Lewis Nixon did was archive, make tea or coffee or order pizza or get spectacularly drunk. Nixon snorted and gracelessly tumbled from the couch to the low table. Spying the tangle of limbs, he grumbled a threatening 'see if I ever get you coffee again' which no one but Lipton heard. Green-eyed jealousy didn't suit a worn out man. Markedly when the jealousness aimed at a wrongly perceived state of affairs, one that hits home a fraction too early.

"I did it!" Speirs' triumph bounced off all thirteen definite walls of the underground base.

"You did it!" His Captain parroted back in equal elation.

"Can I go home now?!"

Winters laughed, smiled, and pushed Speirs towards the next flight leading to ground floor.

As Ron blew past Lipton, a matter-of-factly "Don't die while I'm gone, or I'll never be there to say I told you so and I'll hate you forever", and his middle fingers held up behind his head in a surrender- evoked him to appreciate that the crazy man cared. Flashbacks to the agreements had been made between them, after Muck died, over bottles of vodka and gin. Grave, solemn, serious ones strikingly contrasted to their usual manner; ones about protection, standing together, taking care of one another. That Torchwood was the only life, only family they had- seeing as they'd be stuck with it until death. And ok, so the very next day they were at each other's throats like nothing transpired. They forgot things faster than galloping Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr; or so Lipton took as truth. Speirs took the detached approach instead and pretended he knew nothing about his co-worker, when in reality he could sing arias on the topic of Lipton Carwood singularly.  
Torchwood was truly the one penultimate job which never left you… only because you'd never remember if you left it, if you were part of it, or if you'd had any knowledge of it other than the standard 'Outside the Government, beyond the Police' explanation.

Winters pumped up the radio- conjuring a dedicated Turkish Folk Music playlist of all genres-and when Nixon threw a teacup at his head and bordered on killing him, shouted over an obtuse chromatic scale:

"I introduced this to the Centaurs and they thought it was the best thing since teleportation! Don't you even think about-" A second china mug followed the first, this time on a more accurate path. Captain Winters dropped dead, slain by a piece of crockery. Nixon said a number in the high hundreds. Lipton threw the second half of his sandwich square into Nixon's face without needing the gauge his target. Through tuna and lettuce and grainy, whole meal bread, he heard the raspy voice attempting to deflect Captaincy, and proclaimed a quick:

"Shot not."

"Come on," Nixon whined, "I was stood in as Captain last time! And the Avengers happened! Dick was so pissed."

"Just go back to sleep, Nixon. I'll finish this, he'll wake up, and the two of you can go have sex under a rainbow or whatever."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Damn fucking right nothing. Or else…" Nixon made a sloppy motion of throwing an imaginary cup at Lipton. A beat passed, and the dark-haired man flopped back down on the glass table and was immersed into a fitful sleep. Lipton sat alone in the Hub for two hours more, finishing the transfer with no sound other than the midday Constantine 103.2 radio.

* * *

A

A/N:

*flips all the tables* I DON'T KNOW. *voldemort screech* IGNORE ME, I LOVE YOU, *dying camel noises*


End file.
